Grace Note
by Shadowlass
Summary: After the ruins of her own romance, Anya decides to play cupid for Buffy and Spike. Hurtcomfort, set post-"Entropy." COMPLETE.


_Dumbass._

She'd told him she didn't love him. Which was nothing but the truth, dammit. He didn't have a soul, he didn't have a conscience, and he wasn't good. He wasn't human, and he wasn't Angel.

_Stop thinking about him,_ Buffy told herself firmly. They weren't together any more, so he could do whatever he wanted, with whomever he wanted. Even … _Anya._

"He doesn't even _like _her," she muttered. "He thinks she's crackers, and she talks too much. And she should pick a hair color and stick to it. And she—" Buffy broke off with a gasp as Anya suddenly appeared beside her. Appeared as in _materialized out of thin air._

"Talking to yourself? That isn't a good sign," Anya criticized, frowning at her.

Buffy blinked at her in astonishment. "What did you just do?" she demanded. "Did you just … beam in, or something?"

"Yes. I'm a vengeance demon again—justice demon," Anya corrected herself. "If you ask me, that sounds a little silly, justice demon, but whatever. They didn't ask my opinion. Which they should have, by the way. If it's not broke, don't fix it, that's my motto. More people should live by my mottos, really."

She's a demon again, thought Buffy dully. Perfect. It was a great week._ Hey, she's a demon—you can kill her! _alittle voice in her head reminded her, and for a moment Buffy perked up. She'd sure felt like killing Anya the night before, when she'd seen her with Spike. Killing them both and stomping on their corpses. And then maybe screaming a little. And now—

"But I'm quitting the demon business. And moving, to a town that doesn't have a Hellmouth or a Xander Harris. But I won't quit until after I move—it's so much easier to move my stuff this way. No worrying about movers breaking your things, or sticking their dirty and very possibly sticky hands into your lingerie drawer. Also, it's much more economical, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Economical," echoed Buffy, vaguely aware of a pang of disappointment. Looked like she couldn't kill Anya after all. That's a _relief_, Buffy's conscience lectured her. "You're moving? Because of last night? Look, Xander will calm down. He just needs to get used to the thought of you sleeping with my boyfrie—enemy," faltered Buffy.

Anya rolled her eyes. Buffy was laughably transparent. Why, her jealousy was a plain as the nose on her face, which Anya actually would suggest fixing if Buffy weren't already financially challenged. And those beautiful bridesmaids' dresses for her and Dawn hadn't been cheap, although they were, Anya knew, the kind of classic gowns that they could wear again and again, unlike her wedding dress, a useless expenditure she would never see a return on and which existed only to taunt her.

So really, the dresses were an investment. They'd thank her eventually, except they were never going to see her again, god willing.

"Yes, the sex with Spike was very pleasant," Anya said placidly, determinedly pushing her beautiful perfect wedding gown to the back of her mind. "However, we weren't planning to repeat it. Besides, I had to get him drunk first anyway, so it really was quite a lot of trouble. And all he did was babble about you the whole time—without mentioning your name, of course. You really did train him well," she added approvingly. She'd long since learned that people appreciated well-deserved praise.

For a moment a stupid and entirely pointless hope flared inside Buffy's chest. "You had to get him drunk first?" she repeated.

"Yes. He did come in searching for something to dull the pain he was feeling from you breaking his heart, and I had a plan, so—hello, Jack Daniels."

"You deliberately got him drunk to seduce him?" demanded Buffy.

"Well, no. I was going to get him to wish something bad on Xander, since I can't grant my own vengeance wish. But he didn't, and he was all understanding and sympathetic, and smelled good."

"He smelled good, so you slept with him?"

"Well, who can blame me? He does that tongue thing, after all. And from what he said, I didn't think it was much more than that to you, for that matter—sympathy and a sexy tongue thing. And you know, the stuff that goes along with sympathy and sexy tongue things."

"You don't know what you're talking about," scoffed Buffy without thinking "It was more than that."

Anya's eyes sparked. _Ah-ha._ "So it wasn't just him? You were there, too?"

A sense of discomfort overwhelmed Buffy. She was trying to get past what she had with Spike, and now here she was, discussing it with Anya. Who'd just slept with Spike. "Look, I don't really think we should discuss this. It's over and done with. Last night doesn't make a difference."

"Of course it does—it changes the situation entirely," Anya said airily.

"It doesn't change anything."

"You're not the one with the power any more," Anya countered. "You had it when you told him he was a thing and couldn't love and broke up with him, but you lost it when he and I engaged in the emotional comfort of sex. Because he's moving on, and you were sitting at home with your friends, no doubt performing some incredibly boring Slayer-related duty in which there was little chance of achieving orgasm. I saw the way you looked at him last night—you wanted to beat him silly. A woman doesn't do that if she doesn't care about a man. Or unless her vanity's really very offended. But if you cared so much about him, why haven't you even checked to see if he's okay? For all you know, Xander went to his crypt last night and dusted him. Xander never did like Spike. And Spike can't protect himself, you know. He's helpless. Like a baby duck before its fangs develop."

Despite herself Buffy flinched. She'd never thought of Spike as helpless, even when he was flat on the pavement, accepting her punishment without protest. "Xander wouldn't do something like that," she insisted.

Anya's eyes turned hard for a moment. "He made a pretty good attempt outside the Magic Box."

The crypt was quiet as Buffy approached, which didn't seem like a good sign. No TV? No music? No Spike muttering about how he was going to make her admit she loved him?

God, something must really be wrong, she thought, shoving the door open hastily. "Spike?" she called.

From over the arm of his chair she could a bottle of booze dangling from a pale hand, and suppressed a sigh of relief.

"Coming in to finish me off?" he asked, his voice disinterested. He didn't bother to turn to look at her.

"Don't be stupid—"

"Found another camera you want to ask me about? Or maybe you brought over one of your old boyfriends—I'm sure there's some part of my crypt that hasn't been destroyed. Try over in the corner," he finished in disgust, standing up and taking a pull from the bottle.

Buffy frowned as she watched his slow, careful rise from the chair. He wasn't dust, but he was hurt. Xander must have knocked him around before she got there. "You're hurt."

"What do you care?" he asked sullenly.

She ignored him and walked over to the makeshift kitchen area at the side of the crypt, rummaging around until she found a rag. She pulled the ice cube tray out of the freezer and flipped its contents into the rag, then walked to him and held it out.

He scowled. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

She waved it in front of him impatiently. "It's for your head … or your back, or whatever hurts."

"I tried something for what hurts, and it didn't go over well," he mumbled, dropping back into the chair.

Christ. She thought of all the times she'd dismissed him, insulted him, then used him and left him. Told him he couldn't feel.

He could feel just fine. She just didn't want to know.

Regret stabbed at her. She reaching down to touch a swollen, bluish area on his temple, just edging into his eyebrow. "I'm sorry."

He looked up at her, and the disbelief on his face broke her heart. "You're not a thing," she said. "And it was real for me, too."

He stared at her for a long moment as if trying to comprehend what she was saying. The look of uncertainty on his face was terrible—she had never seen him look uncertain himself before. He was always so confident, so cocky. So sure of himself. But what had she ever given him to be sure of, except a kick in the teeth?

She knelt beside the chair and brought up the rag, pressing it carefully to his face.

He jerked aware slightly before relaxing. "That hurts."

She lessened the pressure. "I'll try to be gentle … I don't think you're very hurt." Spike didn't respond, and after a moment she added. "From last night, I mean."

"No. Not from last night." They were both silent a moment. "You know what I liked best last night?"

The question made Buffy feel queasy, but she sucked it up. This time it was about her comforting him, not the other way around. "What?"

"It's the way she didn't look down on me afterward … until she said it I had just been convenient. My bloody life's story. I'm so sick of being convenient. I mean, I'm used to it from you and the rest of the Scoobs, but from _her?_ A flake who hasn't figured out how to fit in after a thousand years? Even she's getting smug and superior with me? That's the absolute limit."

Despite herself Buffy began to laugh, and the look of surprise on his face was comical. "Spike, you're a lot of things, but you know what? I was wrong. You have never, _ever_ been convenient. You're the least convenient man I've every known, and considering every guy I've ever dated, been related to, or passed on the street? That's saying something."

Spike studied her, a faint smile forming on his mouth.

"What?"

"You called me a man."

She knew what he meant. "It's what you are."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that."

She smiled slightly. "You might hear me say a lot of things you never expected me to."

"You know, Slayer, I think I can live with that."

**The End**


End file.
